


reminiscing the other day

by tilthesundies



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Non AU, Romance, Weddings, a bit of chest hair kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 19:58:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14838212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tilthesundies/pseuds/tilthesundies
Summary: “Spain,” Harry says. “This weekend.”Louis blinks. “Are you asking me, or telling me?”“Asking,” he says with a huff.Harry's invited to a wedding, and there's only so much Louis can hide.





	reminiscing the other day

**Author's Note:**

> the short one won this round. this was supposed to be lighthearted but i think i failed. i just hope it makes sense and that this isn't as bad as i probably think it is

_Did you hear about the love affair between sugar and cream?_

Louis stares at the text.

For the past five minutes, he’s been pulling his notification bar down to just _observe_ the way it holds more colour than all of the other words encased in rectangles. The bold _H_ with a woman’s hat emoji next to it stands tall and foreign and unexpected amongst it all. But he eventually ruins its reign, opening it.

 _?_ , he sends back.

Harry’s reply is immediate.

_It was icing on the cake._

Louis pauses, eyes cutting up and away with lips slightly parted. _Why did we ever think that was funny?_ he responds. There was never anything special about this joke, but it stuck to them that early Spring day five years ago, and they’d laughed at it like it was the opposite.

_I don’t know._

Louis stares at it for half a minute, not expecting another text to come through.

_But it’s still a good joke._

Blinking, breathing in a quiet, deep breath that accentuates the muscles in his neck, he shuts the screen of his phone off and rests it to the side of his kitchen table to ignore it.

 

 

  
  
The problem is, it doesn’t stop there.

Louis was thinking that it’s just a one-off thing — a silly, fragile moment in time to the illusion of who they used to be that briefly brought them back together — and that it’d be gone when morning comes. But that’s not the case. Harry texts him the day after the next, and it’s something so simple: a picture of two different eccentric mugs, with _Which one should I get?_ sent underneath.

Louis told him to get the one with the 3D antlers.

But Harry sent back, _Thanks. I’m buying the dog one._

It made Louis roll his eyes because what the hell did he need his opinion for, then?

It happens over a course of a week.

It shifts gradually from occasional texts to receiving quite a few per day. And these messages aren’t anything special; they range from random questions like the initial one, to simplistic statements and commentary; and it makes Louis wary, and softly brings together a concoction of mixed emotions in the pit of his stomach.

 

 

  
  
Louis’ phone starts ringing.

It’s half gone ten as he sits in front of his telly, suffocating his body with a heavy blanket as moving pictures of _Gavin & Stacey _ act as the only light in his dark house aside from the kitchen far away, and Harry’s contact name lights up the screen.

He hesitates for a moment, before then picking it up, sliding his thumb across and pressing it to his ear.

“Hello?”

“So, I was thinking,” Harry begins, casual and like he’s chewing on something, “I was on some random train earlier in this tiny town of Pennsylvania, and there was, like, a _lot_ of fields; I’m talking miles of nothing but nature, with random farm animals here and there — and I was stuck next to this lady, who has gone through a lot of life experiences what with all the weird stories she was telling me. _Me_ ; a stranger. She didn’t even know who I was. The farm animals were very cute, by the way — dirty, mind you, but cute. And as soon as I got off, I had an epiphany.”

Harry takes such a long pause Louis has to ask.

“What?”

“I think I want a horse,” he finishes, mouth sounding stuffed with food. “Not just any horse. I want a brown one.”

Louis blinks.

“Is this how you greet everyone you call at 10.30 at night?”

“Only you, darling,” Harry replies smoothly. “Now, the names. I have three different ones. But I need some input on which one is better. The first one — are you ready?”

“Sure,” Louis answers patiently.

“Hoover Dam. First one that came to mind. Second one is Tater Trot. It’s cute, right? I think it would fit. And the last one is Bitney Spurs. Now, that one, I’m not so sure on; it’s a bit of a mouth full, and I don’t know if I like the way it rolls off the tongue. Thoughts? Comments? Concerns? Award nominations?”

Louis isn’t sure whether to hang up on Harry or laugh. Five months of silence between them, and this is the first thing he tells him through the phone.

“Okay, um — throw out Bitney Spurs, I’d say,” Louis suggests. “It’s a little weird.”

“You’re right,” Harry agrees.

“Hoover Dam is clever, but . . . ,” he trails off, pursing his lips. “I think Tater Trot is simple and straight to the point and far more appealing. That’s the award winner.”

Harry finally swallows his food, no longer muffled.

“I’m glad we’re on the same page about this,” he says. “I can always trust you.”

His words gently touch the skin of Louis’s lips, almost making him smile. “Do I even want to know why you’re in Pennsylvania?” he asks rhetorically. “Is this what you called me up to tell me about?”

“Not important,” Harry dismisses. “I called to know about your day.”

Louis pauses, unsure.

“Okay,” he says slowly.

“How was it?”

“I’ve done absolutely nothing,” he answers.

“That’s exciting,” Harry intones dryly.

“Isn’t it?” Louis mocks right back.

Harry chuckles.

“Are you watching _Gavin & Stacey_?”

“Oh, you can hear it?” Louis asks, sheepishly picking up the remote to turn the volume down.

“Yeah,” he says. “What episode is it?”

“The one where Smithy gets stuck in an inflatable ring.”

Harry starts laughing, and it pulls the edges of Louis’s mouth into a small smile. “Fucking classic right there,” he says with a very soft sigh. “I’ll let you go, then, so, that you can continue watching.”

Louis’s reluctance swallows his lungs, but they still part with Harry needlessly promising him he’ll text him later. And it becomes oddly quiet in his big home, despite the voices from the telly, like a life was swept out by dark currents in the way it came to be. It’s simple, and a perfect metaphor for the person Harry is — in all his duality.

Louis tucks his blanket tighter around himself to lie down sideways and blink at the telly.

 

 

  
  
The next time Harry calls, Louis’s busy in a studio.

It’s not even a proper call; it’s a FaceTime request. There’s been a weird week of silence between them, unlike the week before, and he was thinking maybe Harry went back to badgering somebody else; and while he would have expected it, it wouldn’t have sit entirely well with him. Harry’s contact picture is a recent selfie Liam had sent of them together; the full picture is of them on Liam’s settee, and Liam’s smiling into it upclose while Harry’s draping a leg over Liam’s lap and leaning back with an arm loosely holding onto his shoulders for balance, head tilted back with his tongue sticking out between his teeth and eyes squeezed shut. Louis unapologetically cropped it to just Harry.

He answers the call before it disappears and he has to make up a lie. “Hi. You’re lucky I’m not with other people.”

Harry’s smiling into the phone, short curls astray and plain black t-shirt on. Judging by the background, he looks to be in some instrument room with other people. “Hello to you, too,” he greets, gum in his mouth. “Are you all by your lonesome?”

“Yes,” Louis answers as he looks back down at his notes, “I am. What’s up?”

“Entertain me.”

Louis doesn’t look up. “No.”

“What did I interrupt?” he asks.

Louis parts his lips—

“Harry, who are you talkin’ to?” a disembodied voice asks.

He looks up and watches Harry turn his head to his left, to whoever’s behind the cream settee he’s sitting on and off to the side. “Louis,” he replies, ever casually. He glances at Louis, then turns his phone to let a complete strange man see him. Louis just gives a small wave, unsure of what to do, and Harry shifts the camera back to himself.

“Your ex-bandmate?”

“ _No_ , my boyfriend,” Harry says without blinking. “Leave us alone, Adam. We’re busy.”

Despite the sharp and hot spike in Louis’s heartbeat, he gives a soft puff of laughter as he looks back down, ignoring the commotion in the background at what is probably Adam’s astonishment, as he says, “You are _not_ helping the rumours.”

Harry shrugs carelessly, face matching, when Louis looks up. “Wouldn’t be a rumour if it weren’t true, would it, baby?” Harry winks, and pops his gum.

Louis rolls his eyes. “You give me a migraine.”

Harry smiles, but it’s brief. He sits up, leaning forward. “I wanted to mention something to you.”

Louis’s heart rate spikes again.

“Hm?” he hums.

“Spain,” Harry says. “This weekend.”

Louis blinks. “Are you asking me, or telling me?”

“Asking,” he says with a huff.

Louis averts his gaze back to the lyrics on his notepad and starts scratching lines out. “Is this a romantic getaway, or is this for something important?” he inquires.

“Our romantic getaway _would_ be important, regardless of the circumstance, so, I don’t appreciate the implication that it wouldn’t be,” Harry begins, “but it isn’t that. I was invited to Pixie Geldof’s wedding, and I was told I could bring somebody. We’d arrive Friday, attend the ceremony Saturday, then leave Sunday morning. We could have a nice dinner the night before; I know an amazing place — serves _exquisite_ food.”

He raises his hand to his mouth to kiss his fingers, miming an Italian chef, and Louis snorts.

“You’ve just got it all planned out, don’t you?”

“Absolutely, I do,” Harry replies shamelessly. A grin spreads across his face. “Does this mean you’re saying yes?”

Louis turns his head away to help hide his involuntary smile. “Don’t look at me like that,” he chastises meaninglessly. “How do you know I don’t already have something scheduled?”

Harry’s smile stays in place.

“I don’t,” he admits. “But I doubt you’d say no.”

“All right, back it up,” Louis says, “I am very capable of telling you no. In fact, I’ve done it a lot. If you don’t tone down that God complex of yours, I have no issue adding another one to the list, so, watch it, mate.”

Harry laughs. “You always keep me humble, baby.”

Fluttering starts up in Louis’s chest.

“You give me no choice,” he mutters. “Your head’s so damn big.”

“So?” He looks expectant at Louis.

Louis’s face pulls together in a thoughtful expression solely for the charade. He wasn’t going to say no, but it’s—well—it’s a little complicated on his behalf, maybe — perhaps, needlessly. There’s nothing to keep him from going, but he is hesitant; because all this interaction with Harry is sudden and out of the blue. Maybe he’s just overthinking every bit.

He’d like nothing more than to see him again. It’s been a long time.

“Yeah,” he answers, nodding, “sure.”

Harry’s eyes light up so fast he feels an odd, tiny bubble of lightheartedness flow to his throat. “ _Fantastic_ ,” he exclaims happily. “Okay—um—I don’t plan to be there until late afternoon, probably, but you can fly in whenever. I have the hotel booked already. So, I guess just call me, or whatever, when you—”

Harry cuts himself off, turning his head with a knuckle in between his lips when there’s a voice out of camera shot talking to him.

Louis can’t hear most of it.

Harry murmurs something very low to someone, then averts his eyes to Louis. “I have to go,” he says, rushed, “call me later. I’ll see you Friday—bye, angel.”

He punctuates his departure with an exaggerated kiss to Louis, eyes squeezed shut and lips puckered cutely so, disconnecting before Louis could even open his mouth to properly ask about the booking. Louis stares at the screen for a small moment, then turns it off as the last ten minutes play like a film in the back of his mind. But he goes about finishing this project with a distant memory of it.

But the kiss sticks with him.

 

 

  
  
Louis arrives at the hotel with big sunglasses covering his eyes, sunscreen freshly applied.

He walks through the doors and into the lobby, eyes gazing at all of the beautiful kinds of decorations, the bright, lively flowers filling spaces, the openness of the ground floor; and the hot and bright sun that shines through every window. He took an early flight; and by the time he got through the delayed aspect, flying in just under three hours, and adding on the time difference and hauling a taxi here, he’s more or less made it around the time Harry had said he’d be.

Louis gives a cursory glance as he makes his way to the reception desk and comes up empty-handed when he sees no sign of him, then moves towards the lift after checking in.

In the silence, he tells himself there’s no need for the small bumps on his skin to come alive and accompany the slight trembling in his fingers; that there’s nothing special waiting for him in their room — that there’s nothing to fall into anticipation for.

And he _knows_ there isn’t.

Their room is nothing extravagant; nothing big, nothing grand. It’s fit for two people. And it’s silent. Judging by the travel bag that belongs to Harry sitting, open for anyone to go through because he’s too trusting and a little careless sometimes, on the table, he’s either out socialising, or he’s fallen asleep in the tub.

Louis drops his bag next to Harry’s and turns around, flinching at the sudden sight of Harry standing in the bathroom doorway, towel wrapped low on his hips, dripping wet.

He clears his throat. “You scared me,” Louis says.

“Sorry,” Harry apologises.

But he’s smiling far too wide, eyes sparkling.

Louis strains to keep eye contact as Harry comes to stand before him, even though his sunglasses would protect him from looking at anything he wanted. His fingers calmly curl into the palm of his hands when Harry’s too close for personal comfort, smelling fresh and sharp and warm and himself.

“Did you shower?” he asks. It’s a stupid question, but he needs something that isn’t silence.

Harry raises his arms and gently removes Louis’ sunglasses. Folding them, he sets it on the table, and then cups the sides of Louis’s face in his warm and calloused hands, and Louis is very still.

“I could’ve waited for you,” Harry says, brushing his thumbs over his high cheek points, “if you wanted to join me.”

Louis rolls his eyes, pushing his hands away.

“That would just cause one of us injuries,” he tells Harry.

“You’re no fun. Can I have a hug?”

Louis takes a step back. “You’re wet. Don’t touch me,” he warns.

Harry shrugs. “Fine,” he mutters.

He removes his towel in one swift motion from his hips. Louis blinks and averts his eyes to behind Harry, crossing his arms with a deep sigh as, in his peripheral, Harry dries off his body and puts the towel back on.

“There. Dry. _Now_ , may I?”

Louis drops his arms to his sides. “As long as you behave.”

“Baby,” Harry coos sweetly.

He embraces Louis in warmth; an arm wraps around his shoulders whilst the other holds him from around his lower back, bodies pressing together when Harry pushes him close, burying his face in Louis’s neck. Louis hooks his chin over Harry’s hunched shoulder, and brings his arms from behind Harry up to grip his shoulders. And it’s such a nice, comforting and consuming hug that softens his core, as it tends to whenever Harry gives him one.

After Harry pulls away, Louis looks elsewhere.

“So,” he begins, turning around, “I—”

The words fall flat and uncooperative in his throat when his gaze gets caught on the single king size bed. He knew it was there, but it’s just now that he’s truly seeing it.

“What?” Harry prompts.

He swallows. “There’s only one bed.”

“Yeah,” Harry responds casually.

“Why?” he asks, flat.

Harry’s sitting in his underpants, putting on socks before his trousers, looking wholeheartedly unbothered when Louis glances over at him. He doesn’t even look at Louis when he answers, “It was the only option I had.” But he lifts his head slightly, after, and meets Louis’s eyes. “Are you uncomfortable sharing now?”

“No,” Louis lies, shaking his head. “Just—wasn’t expecting it.”

“Good,” he says. He openly stares at Louis, unreadable and unashamed as it always is, as he stands and pulls a shirt over his head and down over his torso. His voice has an added happy lilt to it when he speaks next. “C’mon; get ready, sugar. We shan’t be late for our reservation.”

Louis doesn’t react when Harry pats his bum as he walks past.

 

  
  
Dinner goes really good.

Harry sits across from him, and the only time he looks away from Louis or give his attention to someone else is when he orders food. During the rest of it, he talks Louis’s ears off, smiles almost constantly, shows Louis new pictures of his godchildren, and he keeps Louis close to him as they leave, arm around his shoulders.

Louis’s smile is poorly concealed.

However, when they need to sleep, he gets a bit nervous. He just stands there, stupidly, as Harry hops into bed in briefs.

“Um . . . ,” Louis trails off.

Harry adjusts his pillow, looking right at Louis. “What is it, babe?”

“Well—like—how do you want to do this?” he asks.

“Just get in,” Harry tells him.

He moves the duvet down for Louis, and pats the emptiness, waiting. Louis stalls a moment more before he does what Harry tells him, and then lies on his back, staring at the ceiling as he silently swallows the feeling of heavy eyes and a heavy heart, covered. He’s noticed that his nerves are getting to him more this time around than possibly any previous time before; and he’s not sure how to handle it, but, thankfully, they seem to disappear almost as easy as they come.

He feels Harry’s fingers brush against his in a delicate motion, something brief and attention grabbing, and he turns his head to him.

“Night,” Harry says, closing his eyes.

Louis mutters something about seeing him in the morning and has slight trouble sleeping.

 

 

  
  
Getting ready is a bit challenging.

Either Louis thinks he’s misplaced all his socks, which he eventually finds, or he can’t remember where his good shoes are, and it’s just an off-putting morning that leaves him feeling a little incompetent. And Harry smiles and chuckles at him, at first, but he helps Louis and assures him when he sees that he’s having difficulty before disappearing into the bathroom to work on his hair.

Louis waits, then takes over when Harry re-emerges.

After showering, dressing himself, making sure his hair is dry and presentable, he steps out. His gaze flicks to Harry on instinct: Harry stands in front of their bed, one foot stretched farther away from the other, hand in pocket of his cream suit while his other holds the phone he’s scrolling through; there’s an eye-catching contrast to his suit and light blue shirt underneath that complements his complexion and natural dark hair, and he has black sunglasses hanging off the breast pocket on his suit jacket.

He’s impeccably put together, attractive confidence melting from how he holds himself, and the nerves pulsing inside himself soar. Harry looks up when he hears him, eyes moving down Louis’s body as he silently chews gum.

“How’s my hair?” Louis asks.

Harry’s gaze cuts up.

“Beautiful,” he answers, not missing a beat. “Just like the rest of you.”

Louis looks away, mumbling, “Thanks.”

The ceremony is outdoors, and they arrive in time; it’s bright, sun shining absurdly loud, and hot, and he forgot to bring his sunglasses. Harry offers the pair resting on his face to Louis, as they sit side by side in their respective seats, but Louis refuses. An hour later, when Louis’s nose won’t stop acting up during vows, Harry pulls a hidden tissue out of his breast pocket and silently hands it to him.

“Did you pack a sandwich, too?” Louis mumbles dryly.

“No,” Harry says, reaching in to pull out a small stick, “but I brought chapstick. It’s cherry. Want a taste?” He proceeds to uncap it, apply it to his lips, smack them, and pucker his mouth obnoxiously at Louis.

Louis rolls his eyes.

“We’re in the middle of a ceremony,” he lightly chastises.

“Hasn’t stopped us before,” Harry states boldly — perhaps even a little too loudly.

Louis looks at him at a speed far too rough for his neck, and finds Harry looking ahead, watching the officiant with indifferent ease. They’ve kissed at a public event, once, before; he doesn’t remember what it was for, but he remembers the secret moment in the room: Harry holding onto his face like a lifeline, his desperate touch, and his commanding mouth.

It was one of the two kisses they’ve shared.

He doesn’t say anything, and Harry turns his head to look at him, the moment lingering, then redirects his attention to the bride and groom.

Shortly after, the reception starts.

Louis loses Harry not too far into the party, off galavanting. He just grabs a glass of champagne and makes his own way around, socialising with people he knows and people he’s never seen a day in his life. He’s having a good time, sun beginning to set in the distance as he crosses between table sections, glancing around. His eyes fall on two moving figures just metres away, running ‘round the isolated grass area between the two sections, and it’s Harry just poking and teasing at a toddler, having her run after him on unsteady feet as she tries to hit him.

It’s a terrible thing that makes Louis smile, but he carries on to get his drink.

Next time he finds Harry, he’s standing off near the edge in front of some bushes with the Spanish horizon behind him, as someone takes his picture; the golden colours reflect directly beneath the sun, painted in a straight, wet line in the far waters.

His head turns in Louis’s direction when the camera lowers, and he tilts it in invitation.

“Hi, Waseem,” Louis says as he passes by him.

“Hey, Louis,” he replies, smiling.

Harry’s face lights up with a smile at his picture when Waseem walks over and shows him the result, and Louis comes up beside him at the time Harry tells him to text it later before he walks away.

Louis gives him a small wave.

“Hi,” Harry greets him with a smile. “I haven’t seen you in hours. I was beginning to feel withdrawals.”

“You’re a needy person,” Louis explains.

“You know I thrive off your love and validation.”

Louis quietly laughs, shaking his head at Harry’s weird sense of humour. He turns his head to gaze at the horizon, breathing in the tranquility it offers. But with Harry’s eyes on him, the silence between them growing loud, it only serves to further press against the sensitive nerves that are far too self-conscious like sandpaper.

He feels it on the skin of his throat, right side of his face, eyelashes, hands, slightly parted mouth — it’s on every inch exposed to Harry.

He feels absurdly obvious.

“How, um”—he returns his eyes to Harry’s briefly—“how was everyone?”

It’s a weak line.

“Amazing,” Harry answers. “I love cake. Although, I will say, the tinier people are consistently the best.”

Ti—children. He means children.

“How?” Louis asks.

“They don’t care if I smear cake on their face, unlike people our height. They’re not as cute as our ten kids would be, however,” he adds.

Blinking, Louis’s eyebrows rise to his hairline, lips pressed together.

“Why do we have ten kids?”

“Why not?” Harry counters, shrugging.

He shouldn’t encourage this in any way whatsoever, but it’s clear Harry’s had some thought on it, and his own chest has shrunk due to the size of his growing heart and he’s just too damn curious for his own good.

“What else happens in this hypothetical fantasy of yours?”

“Well, we’re married — we do that before the first adoptee — we’ve sold all our other houses, so, now, we have a sole one just in London. A massive mansion, because we need a lot of room. Unless you want to live by the beach, because I know you like the sea—we can discuss that later. Um—we, also, have a couple of dogs, and a cat, too. Eventually, though, we have to get rid of one of the dogs because one of our kids is allergic to it; it’s too furry,” Harry concludes.

Louis stares, breathing in deeply enough until there’s no room left in his throat, as to let his stomach and chest settle. “Is that it?” he softly asks.

“No,” Harry states.

It’s blunt and pointed.

They continue to stare at each other, Harry’s unwavering and unreadable, gold sun illuminating the right side of him, brightening the green of his eyes and accentuating parts of him only natural light harbours; and Louis has to step back after a minute, looking away as an itch tries to control his impulses.

“Ok—”

“I want to kiss you,” Harry tells him unapologetically.

Louis says nothing.

“I should’ve kissed you the second I saw you,” he continues.

“No,” Louis manages, shaking his head, but there’s more; _not here_ ; _later_ ; _yes, you should have._ Harry looks ready to protest, but Louis repeats himself. “No—um . . .”

He trails off, struggling to get the words out of his mouth, then chooses to walk away.

 

  
  
Louis’s lying awake in bed on his back.

He sniffs, lifting a hand to run it through his hair, and then turns to lie on his left side, facing the empty left side of the bed and the window overlooking beautiful buildings and midnight black sky. As hard as he tries, he can’t shut his brain off to sleep; if it’s not the lingering images of living by the quiet sea with a dog and a cat, a plain gold band permanently tied to his ring finger, then it’s wandering thoughts of Harry’s current whereabouts.

A door lock suddenly comes undone, and he briefly glances over his shoulder before then settling back into his spot.

Listening to the door opening, closing, and footsteps, Louis stays still. Harry’s quiet as he comes around, the sound of him taking off his shoes almost inaudible. He’s certain Harry thinks he’s asleep, and he plays along with the illusive notion but keeps his eyes open. The bed sinks in by his feet, and Louis’s eyes fall to see him shucking off his suit jacket gently.

He smells a mix of his cologne, various people’s colognes, and the pungent aroma of the outdoors.

Rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, Harry turns as he stands. A loose, lone curl dangles against his forehead, almost in his eye, shirt further unbuttoned and fine chest hair far more visible in the dim light of this hotel room than earlier in the day. His eyes move upwards, straight at Louis, and he pauses.

“You’re awake,” he says.

“Sort of,” offers Louis quietly.

Harry walks over to his side and gingerly climbs into bed, now slouched himself low against his pillows as he looks down at Louis.

Louis’s mind runs wild in the silence.

“Realistically,” Harry starts, no preamble, “we’d have three kids. At most.”

Louis looks up.

Despite his soft tone, his voice echoes loudly. And it’s slowly pushing Louis into a deeper madness, and he parts his lips—

“First time I kissed you, it was barely a year in. I initiated it. I didn’t think you could want me back, but you kissed me in return. Two years later, you kissed me twice in the span of the same month — once, taken place at the event I alluded to earlier; and when I asked how you were after a really rough day. The last time was not more than two years ago, but I think about all these happenings often. And I think you should finally know that.”

Louis’s heart beats like footsteps on stairs.

Loud, present, cracking — a dingy, worn brown, midnight time showing; cheap metal at two in the morning at hotel six — smacking kisses, silent breaths, fixing. He eats those steps and forces them down his throat after he’s had his fill. Moon comes and goes; forces more than he can afford in her witnesses, and it’s now making its way back up his throat to—

Louis throws the covers off of himself, climbs into Harry’s lap to grip his face and kiss him all in the same moment.

Harry’s hands latch on to his hip and high up his side, his rib.

His mouth moves against Louis’s in smooth familiarity, easily taking the tide and controlling the rush over them. He tastes of various things, most recently an alcoholic beverage Louis doesn’t know, but it feels almost like the relief of a healed gash wound to be kissing Harry again; to be so close to him again, touching and taking and breaking his barrier. And he’s so desperate to feel all of this that he’s clinging to him with a tight, vulnerable grasp and kissing him with that same strength.

Harry’s hands fall down his backside and to his arse to push their bodies closer together, squeezing.

Louis’s mouth falls open.

Harry takes advantage, slipping his tongue in and placing his hands under the curve of his bum that’s covered by his very short pyjama shorts to pull the backs of his inner thighs apart. A soft breath that’s elicited from Louis’s chest becomes a hum, the sensation of being touched and groped skyrockets to deep in his blood and breastbone, and to his cock; it heightens when Harry sneaks his hands up under his shorts, skin to skin, and his breathing hitches, whine caught in his throat, as Harry’s nails dig in thick and spread his arse cheeks even further.

Louis, without forethought, arches his bum into it, and squirms at the feeling of him being stretched to just this slight degree when Harry palms him; it feels off, like he needs something covering him, or to be in him — just _whatever_ to ease it.

He pulls away.

“Touch me,” Louis whispers.

Harry’s eyes are half closed, looking at Louis’s mouth. He looks up as his fingers crawl slowly inward to where Louis wants them to be.

Louis breathes out unsteadily.

“You looked really pretty today, baby,” Harry tells him, voice rough.

His chest flutters.

“Did I?” he asks flatly, looking down.

“Mhm,” Harry hums as the pad of his index finger dips low in between, pressing against Louis’s hole then gently rubbing it. “Look at me.”

Louis meets his gaze the second the tip of Harry’s dry finger enters him, eliciting an involuntary sharp gasp. His hand falls from Harry’s face to his shoulder, gripping it with force as Harry teases him: rubbing the inside edges, dragging it out to pull at the sensitive skin before slipping it back in a little deeper each time.

When Harry shoves his finger in to the third knuckle unexpectedly, Louis’s next words just snap out of him:

“What makes you think I want three kids with you?”

Harry doesn’t falter.

He’s looking at Louis with a similar intensity he had out at the horizon, making Louis feel like he could say anything and be right; like he could bring up all the moments in the past where he’s been nothing but sure about Harry, call him out on the way he’s kissed him and the words that were expressed in them; or he could lie; he could lie, and say that he knows all about the late nights Louis’s had; or he could do the worst of them all: he could bring up New York on that one dark, hot August night the same year their last kiss occured.

He could mention the penthouse and all the windows giving them the view of the city from so high above, the city lights, midnight black sky, the night Louis cracked and gave him the answers he has now that they’ve never disclosed.

Harry breaks eye contact for the briefest of moments.

“Who’s to say you don’t?”

It’s one of Harry’s counter trick questions, but Louis won’t fall for it this time; he’s gonna think about what he says first — which is opposite to who he is and how Harry gets him sometimes.

“I’m not making a definitive statement,” he replies.

Harry nudges a second finger in.

Louis curses and squirms, cock hard and throbbing. He’s trying not to touch himself, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult.

“No need to,” Harry says.

If it weren’t for how _hard_ Harry is underneath him, or the dilation of his eyes, Louis would believe he’s completely unfazed. His face is so composed, and his fingers are in no hurry, teasing him and stroking and brushing just right past his prostate to just push the buttons he knows better than anyone else.

“Do you like taking the piss, or something?” Louis demands, trying to summon some kind of indignation.

“When the timing’s appropriate,” Harry admits.

“You are _never_ appr—”

Louis’s voice cuts off with a moan when he presses his fingers up against his prostate with a smirk that only makes him look like a fucking cocky arsehole. But it falls away almost immediately.

“Actually, I just prefer when you’re honest.”

“I’ve never lied to you,” Louis says with furrowed brows.

Lifting his free hand to Louis’s face, Harry combs his fingers through his hair, trailing them down to his cheekbone to caress.

“I know, angel,” he says. “You just omit the truth sometimes.”

That, he isn’t wrong about.

“You flirt with me and call me baby too much,” Louis tells him.

Harry pulls his fingers out and pulls the back of his shorts down a little too hastily, only to feel him up and stick his fingers back in. Louis’s been trying to stay quiet, to not give Harry the reactions he’s trying to pull out of him, but he’s rougher this time — he’s careless in the way he sets his pace, deep and aiming for all of his sensitive spots, and Louis bites on his bottom lip, but there’s no covering the small sounds and his heavier breathing and the obvious bulge in his shorts.

“Never heard you complain about it before. And,” he adds, with a sharp jab, making Louis gasp and clutch him tighter, “deflecting only makes this worse.”

Louis says nothing.

Harry’s eyes fall down, and his pace slows. He wants to tell him _no_ , to not do that, to go faster, but he’ll win if Louis does that. “We would need a smaller home,” Harry continues on, tone softer and conversational, “since we wouldn’t have so much. But I found a really nice one in London that could work for us. It’s beautiful; it has, like, this classic neo-Georgian architecture with all this modern and chic interior, and I know you would adore it. There’s even a fully equipped gym, which is brilliant. Four bedrooms, five floors, 12,400 square feet. To quote it, it’s set on the most exclusive roads within one of the most exclusive postcodes in London.”

Louis could honestly cry.

He feels parts of his resolve weaken, melt like chocolate, because it does sound like something he would like, and Jesus fucking Christ, Harry would just do whatever he fucking wants, anyway, like _this_.

He swallows.

“Doesn’t sound small,” he comments.

Harry shakes his head, lifting his head to look him in the eye.

“It’s not,” he agrees. “But it has everything we could possibly want and need, and”—he releases an unsteady breath, first sign of his composure cracking—“I may have already bought it.”

Louis stills completely, silence heavy as he stares at Harry.

He reaches behind himself to stop Harry’s hand from moving, keeping his fingers buried in him like a dead weight. “How long have you had it?” he whispers as his heart beats wildly in his chest in a wet heat that entraps it and strikes the backside of him; as a slight tremor rocks through his arms and hands.

Another pregnant pause.

“A year,” Harry confesses, eyes honest and unwavering.

Louis blinks repeatedly, wetness gathering in his eyes. “Wow,” he breathes.

“You told me in New York—”

“Don’t,” Louis says feebly.

Harry looks at him.

“Is it still true?” he asks, quiet.

“I can’t be held responsible for the things I say when you’re fucking me on the floor for all of New York City to see,” Louis argues.

Harry nods, mouth pressed in a line as his eyes dart around before meeting Louis’s gaze, like that’s all he needed to hear.

“So, it is,” he says.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t have to,” Harry says, moving his fingers again. “You wouldn’t be this stubborn if it weren’t true.”

As accurate as that may be, Louis’s not going to vocally admit to that, because he is going to see this plan through, and he’s not going to cry. He opens his mouth to speak, but Harry lightly smacks his arse, squeezes as he pulls at his arse again, and really starts to drive into Louis’s sensitive spots, and what comes out instead is a high pitched whine. The look in Harry’s eyes has become determined, and Louis’s hand falls from his shoulder to his cross necklace, putting the weight of his hand onto it to grip at something.

“Harry—”

“Take off your shorts for me, baby,” Harry interrupts, “please.”

He removes his hands from Louis while Louis sits in his lap, staring at him. Harry patiently stares back until Louis makes the move to raise himself on his knees and pull his pyjamas down, lifting his calves to shuck them off.

Now, he sits, bare, and feeling a little too naked.

“Harry—” Louis tries again.

But it’s useless.

“Can you, um, bring my bag over?” Harry asks, undoing the button and zipper of his suit trousers. “I have stuff in there.”

His brows raise at that.

“Did you expect this to happen?”

“Look,” Harry begins as he digs into a small pocket of his bag Louis went and brought over, “with you, I prefer to be prepared for anything. I could, also, have plane tickets to Egypt in here, so, we could visit the Library of Alexandria. Or Italy for a romantic boat ride. Side note: I’d bought the three dimensional antler mug, and brought it along to give to you. Now, we’ll have correlating mugs.”

A pause.

“You don’t actually have tickets to those places, do you?” Louis asks, squinting his eyes suspiciously.

“Who knows?” Harry says with an ambiguous shrug.

He pulls lubricant packets and a condom out, and pushes his bag down the bed, then he motions for Louis to scoot closer. He cups the sides of Louis’s face and pulls him in for a firm kiss full of soft intentions, and a shiver sparks at the top of Louis’s spine, goosebumps popping up all down his arms and arm hair standing tall.

Harry’s hands fall from his face, and he hears a zipper before he feels something warm and hard and _real_ against him.

Louis breaks away to look down to see Harry’s pulled his cock out of his trousers. It stands tall and big, and, Christ, he feels his hole flutter and clench just looking at it. He’s only had it in him the one, sole time they’ve ever had any kind of sex, and thinking about it just brings up other memories tied to it that Harry himself is trying to trudge up now.

“Wanna ride it, baby?” Harry asks, pressing another kiss to his mouth.

He finds himself nodding.

Harry opens and carefully rolls a condom on, then uses one of the packets to spread lube over himself, stroking himself a few times. He uses the other packet on his two fingers, pushing them back into Louis to open him further briefly.

Louis gets to his knees, fingers around Harry’s cock, and moves in until it brushes up against his bum.

Lowering himself to sit on his calves, he lines himself up, and guides the tip in slowly as he manages to keep steady eye contact with Harry who’s watching him with his bottom lip tugged into his mouth and eyes half lidded. He feels the slow, agonising stretch as the head enters, and he briefly squeezes his eyes shut, biting hard on his own lip; it feels no better than the memory of the first time he had it, but the difference between now and then is that he doesn’t cry out about it. The rest slides in with a gradual ease, and with every new inch he feels more and more full — stuffed — and the backs of his eyes are pricking with tears.

He blinks his eyes open. “I forgot how this was,” Louis murmurs.

“I didn’t,” Harry says.

He’s smiling when Louis looks at him. But it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. And just staring at him, now, as he adjusts to this feeling inside him, he feels like he should’ve known this was coming.

Harry’s been in and out of his life for a long time.

Louis’s always been okay with that. Everybody is busy, but friends are always there when someone needs them, and Harry’s been there for him every single time. No question about it. And Louis’s been there for him, no hesitation. But the stability their connection gave them from the start allowed for the go and have gone to return and stay, like the rise of the sun every morning. And this is the sun that’s come up for a long, never-ending Alaskan summer.

“Louis.”

“Hm?” Louis hums, beginning to move. He shifts his hips side to side, testing, and shakily releases a breath.

“What was it you said to me?” Harry asks.

His tone is casual, but his hands that grip Louis’s waist aren’t.

Louis doesn’t look him in the eye, and he doesn’t say anything as he raises himself up and slowly sinks back down, concentrating on breathing in and breathing out. He _won’t_ say anything, either, because he said it once before two years ago and felt like a complete idiot, red faced and insecurity crippling his lungs, and if Harry wants to hear it, then he’s going to have to fuck it out of him, which Louis suspects is what he plans to do, anyway, when he wouldn’t listen to Louis earlier and, now, isn’t pressuring for an answer.

It goes on like that.

Louis goes at his own pace, switching from slow and drawn out to bouncing fast on Harry’s lap and moving his hips in calm figure eights to give himself a break and from wearing himself out.

Harry never takes his eyes off him, not even for a moment, and it sparks something red that crawls up the skin of his neck and to his cheeks. He touches Louis all over, from his thighs to his cock, to outlining the curvier parts of him with his fingertips and brushing his thumbs against his sensitive nipples; it sends a shiver down his spine, each time, and he knows Harry can feel it.

Harry grabs ahold of his waist, a tight grip that’s meant to capture his attention.

“Baby,” he says, voice caught when Louis abruptly changes angles, “can you lie on your back for me?”

He slightly shifts his legs beneath Louis.

Louis understands and pulls up.

His hole clenches at the loss that leaves him feeling empty and stretched uncomfortably as he lies down on his side of the bed. He sees Harry get up and take his trousers off, then climbs back on to situate himself over Louis.

His cross dangles low in front of Louis, and Louis lifts his hand to curl his fingers around it when he feels Harry re-enter him.

“This better?” Louis asks, to fill silence.

Harry leans down, presses his lips to Louis’s in a brief kiss that has his fingers tightening around the cross. “Yeah,” he whispers when he pulls away. He picks up exactly where Louis left off, Louis’s fingers keeping a tight grip on his necklace as Harry thrusts into his most sensitive spot, and this time, when he goes too deep, too fast, and too right, Louis cries out, back arching. “I remember the way you looked that night.”

“Christ,” Louis swears under his breath, and avoids looking Harry in the eye. “Why would you remember that? My hair was a disaster.”

Harry shakes his head.

“Not your _actual_ look,” he corrects, loose curl swaying against his forehead. “I mean the look in your eyes. All over your face.”

Louis hadn’t seen himself, but he can imagine.

“I remember the desperation,” Harry continues, “and the small—bit of anger you had. It wasn’t directed at me. But”—he grunts, breathing heavily—“it was in you. I feel like . . . sometimes the whole night _blurs_ into one—don’t know what comes first—what I say first to make you say it, and then”—Louis whines when his thrusts sharpen, tears pricking at his eyes again, but not for the same reasons—“the more I’d thought about it, the less I knew. So, I just—”

Louis remembers being impulsive about his wording, that’s for sure. “Do you even still own it?” he asks, looking up to meet Harry’s gaze.

“The penthouse? No,” Harry answers. “Sold it months ago.”

Figures.

He buys places all the time then sells them.

At this point, Louis’s so hard it aches, and he wants Harry to touch him because he’s so fucking _close_ , but he has to bite his tongue to keep it in; if he opens his mouth, he’s afraid he’ll start begging, and that’ll give Harry a score of one and himself a negative five.

Harry places an unexpected hand to his face, something in his sparkling, darkened eyes gentle and loving.

“Louis, baby, I—”

“ _Please_ , touch me,” Louis cracks, pleading. “Please.”

Heart beating wildly out of his chest, warmth oozing its way out of a hidden door in his heart and spreading through his chest like a wildfire, his guise cracks instantly, entirely forfeiting everything. There are a lot of things that evoke tenderness out of him, and Harry touching his face with delicacy and speaking to him in a soft tone is in his most valuable weaknesses. And he’s still staring at Louis like that, a contrast to the way he’s fucking into him that pulls at his other weaknesses.

His hand moves from Louis’s face, trailing his fingers lightly as he goes, but stops just before the place Louis wants his hand most.

Harry opens his mouth—

“I said, no matter what I did,” Louis continues, intervening with a shaky voice as he looks Harry in the eye, “I couldn’t shake you.”

The look in Harry’s eyes change, and he knows he has him.

“That though there were never enough people I could try to love instead, that I couldn’t—and”—his voice catches when Harry thumbs his wet slit—“most importantly, I didn’t want to. I said I was tired of holding this back and wondering why this was going nowhere all the time and that I didn’t want to do what we were—doing anymore: occasional kisses and being vague about everything and withholding the truth. And . . . and . . . that—that I didn’t care whether you felt the same or not, but that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you in whatever way you were able to give me.”

Louis’s paraphrasing the whole thing, but he, more or less, confessed to all of this in greater detail. And it’s giving him déjà vu, burning him all the same.

Harry’s eyes squeeze shut, suddenly, brows pinched, mouth falling open, and Louis feels him come inside the condom, thrusts sloppy and grip loosening. He closes his mouth several moments later, riding it out a little while before blinking his eyes open, appearing a little dazed as he stares down at him.

He barely starts to jerk Louis off before Louis stops him.

“Wanna come on your chest,” he says.

He lets go of Harry’s necklace as Harry shifts down until he’s properly aligned, and it only takes a few rough and fast strokes for a white hot feeling to overtake him, immobilise him momentarily as he comes hard in white ribbons all over Harry’s shirt, necklace, and his chest hair. Harry continues to jerk him off through it, pulling all of what Louis can give out of him until there’s nothing left, then he leans back, pulling out, which inevitably leaves Louis feeling uncomfortable from being stretched so much and unfortunately empty.

Harry lies down beside him.

Despite the strength that was ripped from him, Louis turns onto his side to curl into himself, hands shaking and body fragile with serenity. He looks up at Harry, and Harry turns his head to stare back.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Harry says, dry.

Louis weakly rolls his eyes, but hides his smile in the palm of his hand.

“Yeah, actually,” he retorts, “shut up.”

Love you, his heart sings.

Harry rests an arm behind his head, tilting it to better look at Louis. “So,” he begins softly, “I was thinking . . . let’s get a rough collie.”

“Is that the dog we give away?” Louis asks, after a pause.

“No. Well—maybe. They shed a lot.”

Louis pats below Harry’s sternum.

“Sounds good,” he murmurs.

**Author's Note:**

> leave a comment, send me a message, do whatever u please. heart emoji x23242 | [tumblr](http://tllthesundies.tumblr.com) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/tiIthesundies) | [post](https://tllthesundies.tumblr.com/post/174537993492/reminiscing-the-other-day-by-tilthesundies-rating)


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